


the ghosts that we knew (flicker from view)

by snsk, thelostrocketeer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snsk/pseuds/snsk, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelostrocketeer/pseuds/thelostrocketeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's alive. (Basically some soft smut written on twitter)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the ghosts that we knew (flicker from view)

**Author's Note:**

> So this is what [snsk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snsk) and I wrote last year over twitter. The italics are by her.

Sherlock’s alive.

He’s alive and he’s in John’s flat and he’s got John pinned against the bedroom wall.

 _“John,” Sherlock says, quiet, almost sweet, and John hates everything, hates the whole world._ He touches John’s face, as if memorising the crevices, the rough skin on his cheeks and forehead, and he kisses each square inch of it. _And John should be angry, he should be, he is, but Sherlock’s long, clever fingers are mapping then out his body, making him shudder, filling him with nothing but loose-limbed want._

“Sh-sh-Sherlock,” he mutters, “wha-what are you doing?” as Sherlock’s mouth flutters over each inch of skin, trailing the path left behind by his wandering hands.

“Elementary, my dear John,” whispers Sherlock gently. _Then there’s pain, a scrape of teeth, and John has to stifle a moan as Sherlock bites down none-too-gently on- on- oh, but oh, and John has a thousand questions, a million words, but words can wait, the world can wait because Sherlock is softly licking over the mark left by the bite, and god._

“You see, the kisses stimulate your touch receptors, the bite activates the pain receptors, and the licking releases endorphins, which all,” he says between small but glorious nips and licks of John’s sensitive skin, right below his Adam’s apple, “send happy little messages to your brain”.

  _It’s so Sherlock, John thinks distractedly, to try to explain away this almost –painful desire, burning away at every cell, running hot and heavy through his veins, melting John into a pool of infinite need. He manages a “Less talking,” and pushes Sherlock’s head- down, down, and Sherlock laughs breathlessly and complies._ John can only grasp helplessly onto the wall behind him, his fingers grabbing at nothing as Sherlock makes his way down John’s being, running his hands and his cheek over the fabric of John’s shirt, heading lower and lower and lower.

He looks up and pierces John’s adoring gaze with his steely green eyes, which are dark with want. _“Are you sure,” he says, suddenly, and a sudden cloud of uncertainty clouds his eyes. “You don’t have to. If you don’t-”. It’s John’s turn to laugh, because he’s asking this now,_ after he’s been gone so long, and _John’s shaking and trembling and heavy lidded with need?_

“What, did I do something?” asks Sherlock worriedly. John looks down at his sharp-angled face, and is suddenly overcome with the urge to touch the pale, almost translucent skin. His calloused, well-worn hands marvel at the smoothness of Sherlock’s face as he traces small circles with his thumbs on his cheekbones. He gently pushes Sherlock back and kneels down on the ground, so they are eye-to-eye. “Yes. I do. I want you. I want all of you”. He leans forward slowly and captures Sherlock’s lips between his own. _He can feel Sherlock’s smile on his lips. And then Sherlock’s hands are busy at work once more, fumbling at John’s buttons, and John marvels at how his usually gloriously graceful fingers are now slippery and shaking (with nerves? Need?)- at how Sherlock unravels._

As Sherlock’s head dips to cover his chest, collarbones and shoulders with tiny kisses, John leans forward into the soft, silky curls on the top of Sherlock’s head and inhales deeply. He smells of shampoo- Jasmine scented. He marvels at the way Sherlock’s dark, shiny hair feels against his nose, how it gently tickles his cheeks, and he kisses the top of Sherlock’s head.

Suddenly a jolt of electricity shoots down his spine and John’s head snaps back as Sherlock nibbles his left nipple. Oh- oh. John’s hands do some wandering of their own accord, up and down on Sherlock’s neck, the back of his head- tugging at the little hairs there, finally landing on Sherlock’s smooth back _. It’s like touching a work of art, smooth planes and sculpted angles- the broad expanse of back all John’s to touch and he does, revelling in the feel of Sherlock’s skin, of finally getting what he’s wanted for so long. Sherlock arches into the touch, like a cat, and bites harder at a particularly sensitized spot, making John cry out, and it all gets a little hazy from there._

Looking back, it’s a blur of hands and mouths and skin. Nerve ending buzzing and skin over-heating and blood pulsing and magic- magic like never before. John will remember pain, followed by waves and waves and crashing tsunamis of pleasure. He’ll remember calling out Sherlock’s name, and hearing his name come out of that glorious mouth, like a string of pearls, an endless mantra. _And he’ll remember, past the dizzying pain, the perfect, perfect pleasure, this he’ll remember the most, with knife-sharp clarity, Sherlock, braces above him, inside him, filling him, but asking anxious enough to stop moving, features conflicted with need and worry- “Is this- are you okay?”, still worrying about John’s comfort when he’s giving him all that he’ll ever need._

He’ll remember looking Sherlock in the eye, smiling beyond the stinging pain, and whispering, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” those three words, giving his permission, admission, commission.

_Sherlock doesn’t say it back. He’s not one for sentimental declarations of love, not even in the high heat of passion, but he doesn’t need to._

_It’s in the way he gathers John close, after they’re both wrung out, sated; in the way he kisses the shell of John’s ear, soft and sleepy. It’s in the way he curls himself up around John as he drops off to sleep, tired, trusting as a child. He doesn’t have to say anything, but John knows._

John knows, and he closes his eyes and has no nightmares that night. Only bliss.  

 

**Fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> title from the ever title-able Mumford & Sons.


End file.
